The burn of the past is in the pain of my fingers as the clouds of tomorrow loom overhead. The fear of today should have died, but it lingers and the key to control is in the purr of a cat.
It asks: “What's that sorrow that you speak of so fondly and profoundly you cling to in the depth of the night?” And you cringe and you crouch and you cry so resoundly that the stars' tumbled tears fill with wisdom and fright.
“Even spiders have hearts that are deemed non-existent,” says the cat who's own heart has never known cold. The traces of truth in its words are insistant, so you crumble and crawl to turn heedless things gold.